


The Compliments of the Season

by apliddell



Series: An Extraordinary Genius for Minutiae [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, Brief Mention of Past Child Abuse, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Domestic Johnlock, F/F, F/M, John's Childhood, John's blog, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, Texting, sherlock's family, wedding fic, weddinglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: “Sherlock Holmes, you haven’t eloped!”“Well, yes, we sort of have, actually,” Sherlock grinned a bit at that. It was quite lovely. “Been married six days now. Congratulate me?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> Dear finamour asked for a Christmas story with John and Sherlock's little dog, Bunbury, and here it is. Hope you like it <3

“Get up, John,” Sherlock nudged my side with one bony knee, “You’re on my phone.”

I nudged back, “I’m really not, though.”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock insisted moistly in my ear, employing his compliance by annoyance rhetorical method. “You’ve rolled over on it.”

I ducked and rubbed my ear, “I haven’t. And you shouldn’t put your phone in the bed, anyway. It’s all over bacteria.”

“So are you. Get up,” Sherlock nudged harder.

I returned with interest, “This is a princess and the pea situation, gorgeous.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Are you the princess in this scenario?”

I grinned, “Oh, did you want to be the princess?”

“Well, I-oh, oh goodness!” Sherlock squirmed, contorting the bedding around him, “Something’s happening to my backside.”

I laughed, “It’s not me!” I raised both my hands up above the bedclothes to demonstrate my total innocence.

“That tends to be a rather more decisive sensation,” Sherlock bounced his eyebrows at me, then added without a glimmer of embarrassment, “Ah, I’m lying on my phone.”

“So then you _are_ the princess.”

Sherlock flapped a hand to hush me as he pulled his phone out, “Oh god.”

“What is it?”

“My mother,” Sherlock tapped the screen, and his phone lit up with the video chat, “Mum?”

“Sherlock Holmes! Explain yourself!”

Sherlock frowned and cut a glance at me, “Sorry?”

His mother crinkled a bit of newsprint at him menacingly, “Just what-oh is that you, John, darling? Hello! So nice to see you again, love. How’ve you been keeping?”

I pulled the sheets modestly up to my chin, and leaned further into her field of view, “Good morning, Mae. We’re perfect here, of course,” with a little pat on Sherlock’s back. “How are you? How’s Bob?”

She rolled her eyes fondly, “Oh, you know Bob. He’s humming.”

“You’ll give him my love, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, darling.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Sherlock shoved his phone at me, “You two carry on with that. I need the loo.”

“Oh no you don’t,” barked Mae, every bit as steely as before. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you owe me an explanation, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Er, well I’ve just waked up. It’s a fairly normal bodily function first thing in the morning.”

“It’s half nine; what are you doing still in bed?”

“We’ve just got home from a trip late last night, so we had a lie-in. What do you care? Why are you shouting at me? Sunday morning eardrum bursting?”

Mae glared up at Sherlock, “Sandra popped round this morning, Mrs Next-door, you know. She wanted to borrow my big platter for the bingo, and what do you think but she had something for you.”

Sherlock glanced guiltily at me, “Something for me? I would never have guessed, seeing as how I don’t know Sandra from a hole in the ground.”

“Well,” sniffed Mae, “I was a bit surprised myself, but she said she’d seen in the paper how my youngest was getting married, and she wanted to send a little something, since we’d been neighbours so long. I told her she couldn’t possibly have that right, as it was the first I’d heard about it, and then she showed me the notice of intent in the paper.”

“Oh fuck me,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“You buck up your ideas, young man!”

“Sorry mum.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you haven’t eloped!”

“Well, yes, we sort of have, actually,” Sherlock grinned a bit at that. It was quite lovely. “Been married six days now. Congratulate me?”

“Sherlock! How could you get married and not invite us?”

“I.” Sherlock looked over at me, and I patted his back reassuringly. “We didn’t invite anyone. Why would we? It’s nothing to do with you. Why would anyone take an interest in…” Sherlock trailed off at his mother’s expression, “Not good?”

“Not very good, no,” I murmured.

“Oh _Sherlock_ ,” Mae dabbed at the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “Darling, you went and disappeared for two years. And you never told us about John; we had to find out on the blog. And now you’ve got married, and. Were you ever going to tell us at all?”

Sherlock shrugged uncomfortably, “I suppose I hadn’t. Thought.”

She sniffled, “Have we done something wrong? I just don’t understand why you would leave us out this way.”

“No, Mum, it’s not that,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Well then, what is it?”

“It isn’t anything, really. I just. Didn’t think. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be hurt. It was just a few minutes in the registry office and lunch afterward.” Sherlock shifted his phone to his other hand and felt for mine among the blankets. I caught hold of his and squeezed it. “There wasn’t even any cake. Really not worth the train up.”

“It’s not funny, Sherlock, really it isn’t,” Mae looked close to tears again.

Sherlock dropped his eyes, “Sorry.”

“You will have a reception, won’t you?”

“A what?”

She sighed, “Sherlock, can’t you give us something? Some little thing? Please?”

Sherlock looked at me and cocked his head. I pressed his hand, “If you want one, lovely, of course we can.”

“All right,” Sherlock said slowly. “We’ll sort something out, then. Something small.”

Mae brightened at once, “Oh thank you, darling, that’s wonderful!”

“Very small, mind you,” Sherlock said sternly. “Barely visible to the naked eye.”

Mae smiled, “Yes, I heard you. Something small. Now I’ve got to dash, darlings. My phone’s got all hot, and I don’t want my hand getting irradiated. We’ll talk soon. Bye loves. Love you.”

“Bye Mum. Love you, too,” said Sherlock. They disconnected. Sherlock fell back against his pillow and covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. “I think I need a kip after that.”

I curled round him and kissed his cheek below his arm, “Mmm, we’ve got to go round Mary and Janine’s and collect Bun, remember?”

“Dear old Bunbury,” Sherlock’s smile was visible under the edge of his elbow. “Let’s make them come out for breakfast with us, John. I need reviving.”

 

…

 

“So how was your holiday? Pleasant trip?” Mary taps her spoon on the edge of her mug.

“It was brilliant,” John catches my eye, and we smile at each other a moment too long. “Brilliant trip. Absolutely fantastic.”

“What? What’s that look?” Janine looks between us, grinning. “Was it like that time you were arrested, getting off the Eye?”

“We weren’t arrested,” John aims a kick at my chair, but only bumps his knee against mine. I rather like that, actually. “Sherlock, you’ve got to stop telling people about that.”

“Nearly arrested, again then?” Mary sets her mug down, and her expression of amused curiosity perfectly matches Janine’s. Wonder if John and me ever look that way (matched, that is)(we must do).

“Elevate your mind,” I tell them loftily. “Nothing like that. Do you need the ketchup, John? You’re doing your ketchup face.”

“Have I got a ketchup face? I do think it’s illegal they wouldn’t put a tomato slice on my toast. Yeah, I’ll take the k-”

“Right well, incredibly cunning diversion aside,” Mary interrupts. “You’re clearly dying to tell us and only being dramatic, so out with it then.”

Pass John the ketchup, “Dramatic? Dramatic, John! Does that sound like us?”

John laughs and nudges his egg off his toast so that he can apply his condiment, “Do you want to tell them, or shall I?”

Beam at him (can’t help it), “Go on, then. They’ll probably only shout at me like my mother did, and I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”

“Well,” John squeezes my knee under the table. “We, ah. We got married. It’ll be a week Monday.”

“I knew it!” Janine crows over Mary’s wordless squawk. “You owe me a tenner!”

“You’re pulling our legs,” Mary says flatly. “John doesn’t even believe in marriage.”

Glare at her, “Thanks ever so.”

John shrugs, “I don’t not believe in marriage. I definitely believe in Sherlock. And no, of course we’re not joking. We got married. You got married! People do.”

“And we’re rather pleased about it, actually,” carry on glaring at Mary (much more stung than I’d have expected to be at that remark). “Give your wife her money.”

Mary snorts and digs in her bag for the cash, “No offense, sweetie.”

“Do you actually know what that means, though?” John’s cross with her as well (wonder if our expressions match).

Mary stops searching her bag, “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean you shouldn’t. Only I was a bit surprised, that’s all. You’re brilliant together, and of course you’re going to carry on being really weird and happy and all that.”

“Congratulations,” puts in Janine, rising for hugs.

We all stand then and do the awkward little celebration embrace shuffle, and Mary kisses my cheek when she gets to me and squeezes my shoulder, “Sorry sweetie. Kiss and make up? I really didn’t mean anything by it.”

Sigh, “Fine. But you’ve got to get us a really nice wedding present.”

“All right, deal.” Kiss her cheek, and she and Janine sit down.

Hug John quickly before I sit, too, and he smiles at me and pets the back of my neck when he takes his place beside me (too delicious)(want to shut my eyes, but definitely shouldn’t)(time enough for that sort of luxury later). “My mother’s bullied us into having a reception, so you’ve got to come to that as well.”

“When is it?” asks Janine.

Wave carelessly, “We haven’t quite sorted that out yet. Some time.”

“All right, then,” Mary nods. “Some time. We’ll be there.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ten days into our marriage, I came in from work to find Sherlock sat on the floor of the sitting room with one arm about Bunbury and a cardboard box at his knee. 

 

“Ah, John, excellent. Come and give me a kiss, and you can see what my dad’s sent us.” 

 

“Hello gorgeous, here I come.” I hung my coat and sat down on the floor to claim my kisses from Sherlock and from Bun. “What’s this?”

 

“My father sent it to us. I haven’t opened it yet, but I have my suspicions,” Sherlock handed me an envelope, evidently torn off the front of the parcel. “Read it; it’s for both of us.” 

 

I opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside.

 

_ Dear Sherlock and John,  _

 

_ Found this in the attic while getting out the baubles for our tree and thought you might like to have it for your home together. Congratulations on your marriage! Mum and I are so pleased for you, my dears. To paraphrase George Eliot, what greater thing is there! Hope to see you again very soon. Look after each other.  _

 

_ Dad _

 

I looked up at Sherlock, who was already smiling into my face, “‘What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined together for life. To strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in the silent unspeakable memories.’” 

 

I grinned back at him, “You had that memorised? How romantic.”

 

Sherlock coughed, “Well, it’s only short. Nice note.” 

 

I kissed his pinking cheek, “Yeah, your dad’s lovely. So what’s in the box? You said you had your suspicions.” 

 

Sherlock produced his pocket knife and sliced through the tape sealing the box shut. He pulled away the paper wadding at the top of the box, liberating the scent of dusty silk and old wool, “Just as I thought.” I peeped over Sherlock’s shoulder, just as he turned his head to glance back at me, and he landed a rather clumsy kiss on my cheek. 

 

“What is it?” I asked, smiling under his caresses. 

 

“We made it,” Sherlock began to pull an elderly holly garland out of the box. “My mother, Mycroft, and me. We made it together; my mother hangs it every year. Mycroft cut the holly leaves out of silk. My mum crocheted the ropey bit and stitched the leaves to it. I was very small at the time. I painted the beads to look like berries, and my mum helped me tie them onto the garland.” 

 

“It’s beautiful,” I kissed him again. “We must have a tree this year, so we can display it properly.” 

 

“Just so,” Sherlock stroked Bunbury’s head thoughtfully, then coiled the garland back into the box. He grinned, “Can I tell you a secret, John?” I leaned in and offered my ear. Sherlock nuzzled me before whispering, “I love Christmas. I’ve always loved it.” 

 

I stroked Sherlock’s hair, “I won’t let on.” 

 

He shut his eyes and leaned into my hand, “Bun and I were thinking we’d quite like a walk. Would you like to join us? I’m feeling rather romantic, and I’d like to take your arm and press your hand, and shyly tell you that you’ve got moonlight in your hair.” 

 

Bunbury pranced in place at the word, ‘walk’ and I laughed, “How could I resist an invitation like that?” 

  
  


…

  
  


When we are a few steps outside of our flat, John takes my arm, presses my hand, and kisses it, “You’ve moonlight in your hair, gorgeous.” 

 

Snatch my hand back (because I’m meant to, and I’m a good sport), “Shameless usurper.” Bunbury peeps back over her shoulder to see what the fuss is about, but we walk on, and she seems satisfied. Presently John takes my hand again, presses it, kisses it, and tucks it into the crook of his elbow. When I look over at his face, he smiles back at me, expectantly. Swallow a return smile, “Give me a moment to invent some additional romance, John. What I had in mind was brazenly stolen out from under me.” 

 

“You want to tell me something,” John presses my hand again. “I can wait if you like, but. I’m listening.” 

 

“Clever,” look up at the sky (John looks with me), scraps of dazzling starriness are visible between the cloud banks and the rooftops (the tiniest things things expand around John)(tell him that? He’d like it). “You make me so intolerably soppy, John.” 

 

John grins, “I know. Likewise.”

 

“I’ve had an idea about,” pause to roll my eyes, “the reception.” 

 

John nods, “Christmas dinner. Right?”

 

“Oh. Yes. You deduced me that easily?” 

 

John shrugs, presses my hand, “I know you for real.” 

 

“Mmm, so you do. Maybe Christmas Eve instead? Might be easier to get people to turn up.” 

 

John tugs at my hand, “I love it when you let on you like people. Kiss me, if you’re going to say sweet things.” 

 

“Shut up, John; don’t be horrid.” 

 

John tugs again, “Kiss me.” I do kiss him, until his chilled mouth warms under mine. 

 

“So what’s a Watson Christmas like?” I ask when we walk on again. 

 

“Hmm,” John is quiet a long moment, considering. “Well, my dad was a. Erm.”

 

“Horrible, violent, alcoholic, homophobic bastard,” I suggest. 

 

John grins (or his face makes a mirthless grinnish shape), “Yeah. Anyway, he was also the sort who thought he could sort of buy his way out of the. Er. Everyone hating him. With presents and things. So he’d be his miserable drunken self as usual, and we’d all be slinking around, trying not to be noticed, and he’d shout at us for not being together enough and shout at us for not being grateful enough and dnno. Shout at us for spilling orange squash on the tablecloth. And then shout at us for ruining Christmas by being unhappy.” Squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back, “Right. Not very nice. Anyway, Mum finally chucked him out when I was about twelve, and then we were a bit happier, but poor all the time, so Mum tried with the presents, but that was a bit depressing, because by then we were old enough to know she couldn’t afford it. And she wasn’t around all that much longer; she died about a year before my first marriage, so er. Yeah. Sorry. Oh. Hello.” John smiles (a real smile) when I catch him in a hug. “It’s all right lovely.” John pats my back, and I let go though I don’t want to let go, because I am embarrassing him (I ought to be able to hold the entirety of John’s existence in my arms, and it is unfair that I cannot). John pats me again (outrageous that he’s comforting me; how did that happen?), “I haven’t seen him since I was sixteen, Sherlock. It’s all right, really.” 

 

“Is this a bad idea? We might do it over New Year instead.” 

 

“No, lovely, it’s a brilliant idea. We’ll remake it as an institution, okay? We’ll make it ours.” 

 

Think of John trying to do that for our first Christmas together and remember sulking through his party, because I wanted him wholly to myself (try not to cringe), “We’re good at that.” 

 

Kiss his temple, and he smiles again, “We are good at that.” 

 

We are quiet for long enough that I think we’ll be silent the whole rest of our walk, but John speaks again, “It wasn’t a howling wasteland. I was happy sometimes.” 

 

Stroke his arm, “Tell me more.” 

 

John nods, “If we could afford the train journey, we’d go to my mum’s mum for Christmas. And we’d have the nice dinner and stockings and carols and ha, even silly hats.” 

 

“I love silly hats.” 

 

John laughs, “Liar.”

 

“Well, I’d let you put one on me, anyway.” 

 

John grins, “I’ll hold you to that. My gran used to make these rum balls that’d take your eyebrows off. I happen to know the recipe.” 

 

“Perhaps you could be persuaded to serve them at our wedding reception.” 

 

John nods, “Perhaps I could.” He halts and tugs at my sleeve, but we have to pause for a moment, because Bunbury tangles us in her lead when she turns back to see why we’ve stopped. 

 

“You were saying,” I prompt when we’ve freed ourselves. 

 

“I just wanted you to know that I’m really glad I’m doing this with you. Know what I mean?” John nods, looking intently into my face (there really is moonlight in his hair now). “All of this,” John presses his hand to his chest (to his new tattoo, the winged heart that matches mine)(bad form to open his shirt in the street for a peep, surely). “Mostly the bad stuff seems a really long way away now,” John reaches for me but pinches my side gently instead of catching hold of my hand, as I expected him to (prickle of shame)(and something else)(John loves me so that I can't stand beside him and feel only ashamed of myself). “We don’t need to make up for anything. I don’t think. I just want to be with you. I’m just pleased to be where I am. You know?”

 

Nod, “Yes, John. I think I do know.”


	3. Chapter 3

A Brief Announcement

Sherlock Holmes here. Not that it is any of your business, but people keep being annoyed with us for not having mentioned it earlier, and this blog is quite efficient as a method for disseminating inessential information to all of you hopeless busybodies. As apparently in any case it isn’t going to be used to properly discuss casework. Anyway. John and I have got married. Quite recently, though if you have known us long, you may feel as I do, that it was a very long time coming. We are terrifically pleased with ourselves but would have been content to be superlatively delighted in private, had we not been hounded half to death by someone who styles herself my mother (because she is my mother). 

We will be holding an extremely small and still relatively private celebration of our nuptials near the end of this month. John tells me it is not the done thing to issue these sorts of invitations by text message, so about half a dozen of you ought to expect to hear from us by post on the subject. Hope to see you there. Well, here in our flat actually, as that’s where the festivities will be taking place. 

 

Comments (31)

 

John Watson:

I was going to tell you I’d have done it, only I think you were looking for an excuse to be all romantic and declarative in public. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

I can see you’re longing for me to be contrary, but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction. 

 

John Watson: 

Can’t bring yourself to deny your soulful and poetic nature, more like. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

I shall set the dog on you, John Watson. 

 

John Watson:

Oh no! Then I might be licked to death. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

Christmas is cancelled. 

 

Jacob Sowersby:

Congratulations! 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

Thank you very much. 

 

Mmmorstan:

Show-offs. You could do this aloud in private, you know. You do live together.

 

Sherlock Holmes: 

We can use the blog we created specifically as a platform to promote our interests to communicate with each other also. I don’t see what it’s got to do with you. 

 

Mmmorstan:

Don’t you think it’s a bit rich to claim you’re desperate for privacy, then flirt like mad in public? 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

I’ve never been desperate for a thing in my life, and I’ll thank you to remember that. 

 

Mmmorstan: 

You’re always forgetting we used to be flatmates, so I know you a little bit better than that. 

 

John Watson:

All right, break it up, or I’ll have to disable the comments. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

Spoilsport. You’re only jealous of the charming banter between me and my best friend. 

 

John Watson: 

Actually I’m rather worried you might pull each other’s hair. 

 

Mmmorstan:

Oooh, did I tell you we’ve found your really nice wedding present? 

 

John Watson:

Thanks, Mary! 

 

Mmmorstan:

Our pleasure x See you soon, luv. 

 

Mrs Hudson:

A wedding and a Christmas party! It must be my birthday. 

 

Sherlock Holmes:

Technically, the wedding happened two weeks ago. 

 

Mike Stamford:

A long time coming! Congratulations!!!

 

John Watson:

Thanks Mike! We hope we’ll see you at the party!

 

Mike Stamford:

Sorry lads, we’ll be skiing over Christmas, but we must do drinks soon. 

 

John Watson:

Definitely!

 

Sherlock Holmes:

John, I think Bunbury needs walkies. She’s just opened another Christmas present. Who’re all these socks for?

 

John Watson:

For you, of course. Don’t you like them?

 

Sherlock Holmes:

I do, actually.  

 

Molly Hooper:

Walkies!

 

Sherlock Holmes:

Shut up. 

 

John Watson:

Got to go, everyone! You heard the man. It’s time for walkies. 

 

…

  
  


“This is a bit insane. You realise that, don’t you?” 

 

“Hmm?” Sherlock squinted down at the leek he was considering, then cocked his head at me. 

 

I laughed, “Not the veg, the plan.” 

 

“Oh, the plan,” Sherlock sniffed the leek thoughtfully. 

 

“You did that already.” 

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Am I keeping you from something, husband?”

 

I grinned and reached out to prod his side, but Sherlock knocked my hand away without turning his attention from his leek, “That’s unfair tactics. Calling me that.”

 

Sherlock looked up, “Calling you what?” He lowered his voice, “Husband? Do you like that, John?” 

 

“This is the weirdest, most muddled come-on I’ve ever seen.” I tried to prod again, but Sherlock was still too quick for me.

 

“I think you like me weird and muddled, don’t you, husband? You’re not jealous of this innocent root vegetable, are you?” Sherlock put the leek into his hand basket. 

 

I laughed, “That’s not what they are. And no. And I know you’re only trying to deflect me, for some reason. Probably because you know it annoys me.” 

 

“Who was it who called who insane?” Sherlock retorted primly, turning his attention to a display of fresh herbs. 

 

“Who called whom. And most people don’t cater their own wedding receptions. You do know that?” 

 

Sherlock waved me off, “Oh John, don’t fuss. It’ll be fine. It’s only Christmas dinner. We’ll just have a soup, a mash a-”

 

“Right, I remember the menu. You’ve been muttering it in your sleep for the last three days.” 

 

Sherlock looked up from a sprig of rosemary to glare, “Have not!”

 

“Have so. Can’t think why that would bother you. Anyway, passing over your mysterious ability to get me arguing about absolutely nothing-”

 

“It’s your horrible temper that makes you argue, you brute. I’m sure I have nothing to do with it,” he said airily, returning to his herbs. 

 

“Anyway! You don’t know how to cook.”  

 

Sherlock glared again, “Yes, I do! You forget I survived twenty-nine years before I met you, John. I did learn a handful of things about functional adulthood.” 

 

“When I met you, you were living on pot noodle and Marmite, and you were so underweight, I might’ve cut myself on your cheekbones.”

 

“If you’d been getting anywhere near enough my face to encounter my cheekbones, which tragically you were not. Please don’t quote that awful woman at me, John; it puts me off. And I just because I wasn’t cooking at the time doesn’t mean I can’t. Of course I can; it’s only applied chemistry. I can follow a recipe, and I’ve no idea what I’ve ever done to suggest it’s beyond me. I'm not an idiot!” 

 

“Sorry,” I pulled on his sleeve and leaned up for a kiss when he turned to look at me. “I just think it’ll be more fun, if we hire those bits out. Won’t you find it a bit stressful, chasing after shallots and things on our. Er. Well, not our wedding day, I suppose.”

 

“No, John, we’ve already had that.” Sherlock kissed me again, “And it wasn’t stressful at all, was it?”

 

I smiled, “No, it wasn’t stressful at all.” 

 

We went a bit soppy then, just smiling at each other, and Sherlock’s hand came up to his chest to pet his new tattoo through his shirt. “John, it’s only a meal for a handful of people we’ve known for years. Some of them, our whole lives. Now let me cook you and our family a marvellous dinner, and we’ll get to work on some Watson-Holmes family traditions, as we are long past overdue on establishing them. All right?”

 

“Traditions?” I grinned. “Sherlock Holmes espousing tradition! Is that what this is about?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, John, obviously. Tradition, ritual. Whatever you want to call it. Things we do to remind ourselves that there is a gleam of order and comfort and beauty in the world, if only because we’re determined to manufacture it.”

 

I pinched him, and he got that soft look that he always gets, “Well. All right, then. How can I say no to that?”

  
  


…

  
  


“You needn’t rush yourselves for me, darling; that’s all I’m saying.”

“Yes, Mum, I understand what you’re saying, but I promise you that isn’t what’s happening.”

“Only you do seem to be in a bit of a rush.”

“Why postpone joy?”

“Well all right, then, fair enough. Are you sure I can’t do anything?”

“Do anything? Like what?”

“Well, if you’d wait until summer, I might bring you roses from the garden, darling.” 

“There’s really no need. We’ll do very well without flowers.” 

“None at all?”

“Would you like a corsage? I’m sure I could arrange something, if you’d feel underdressed without one.” 

“I never heard of a wedding without flowers, Sherlock.”

“Mm, what would Sandra from next door say?”

“Now there’s no need to be smart with me, young man.”

“Sorry, Mum.” 

“I could bring a fruitcake.”

“You know I was just reading in the paper that the number one cause of divorce in the UK is fruitcake.”

“That isn’t funny, Sherlock!” 

“It is a bit. John’s laughing.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Dearest Mother, John and I shall carry on having the world’s most perfect marriage, with or without fruitcake or flowers. This is only going to be one day. And there is no need for you to bring anything with you, apart from my father. All right?” 

“Fine, fine, you’ve got it under control.” 

“We do indeed. See you next week.” 

“That soon! Well this is getting exciting, isn’t it?”

“It promises to be a very pleasant evening. Anything I ought to be practising on my violin?”

“Ah, let me see. Do you know ' I’ll Be Home for Christmas' ?”

“Of course.”

“Well that would be lovely.”

“It’s done.” 

“Thank you, love. Good night, darling. See you soon.” 

“See you, Mum. Good night.” 


	4. Chapter 4

I’m a grumpy, cynical, lonely old man. Or at least I have been. Sherlock makes it sort of difficult to feel old or lonely or cynical in his company. Grumpy, he will sometimes allow. I’m not the sort of person who gets excited easily. But on the day of our dinner, I woke with a Christmas morning feeling dancing in my middle like I hadn’t felt in three decades. 

 

Sherlock was not in bed beside me, and there wasn’t even a warm spot on his pillow, but Bunbury was curled like a polite little croissant at the foot of the bed. When she saw I was awake, she crept up and flopped next to me to lick my chin. 

 

“Good morning,” I stroked her ears. “Where’s your dad, hmm?” Bun only thumped her tail once and laid her head on my pillow. I stretched a little and scratched her chin, then decided I may as well get up and find Sherlock. 

 

The flat had undergone something of a transformation in the wee hours that made it feel like Father Christmas really had been and gone. Sherlock and I had decorated together, in stages over the previous few weeks, but now joining the trimmed tree, the holly garland and candles on the mantel, the potted Christmas lilies, and the red nose on the cow skull hung on the wall, there were chains and chains of paper snowflakes, glittering with tinsel under the pinkish glow of the twinkling fairy lights and draped over the windows and doors, circling the room like moulding. The effect was magical, and almost overwhelming.

 

I found Sherlock in the kitchen, wrapped in his tartan dressing gown and fiddling with the French press. 

 

“Good morning, Sherlock. Happy Christmas.” 

 

Sherlock left off trying to put the coffee on and came to hug me, “Happy Christmas, John. Good morning.” 

 

I kissed his cheek, “There’s been a blizzard in the sitting room. Have you seen?”

 

Sherlock grinned sheepishly, “Oh yes. I couldn't sleep. That er. Just sort of. Happened.” 

 

“Happened, eh?” I gently steered him into a kitchen chair, and when he leaned his head back against my chest, I stroked his hair and twined a curl round my finger, just like he likes. 

 

Sherlock sighed, “That’s marvellous, John.” 

 

“Well, I’m not going to stop.” I kissed the top of his head, “Are you a bit nervous, lovely?” Sherlock didn’t answer straight away. “Because you know we are already married.” 

 

Sherlock huffed, “Of course I know that, John.” 

 

“But you’ve got something on your mind.” I leaned my head against his head, “I’m listening, husband.”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a bit, but he turned in his chair to find my socked feet with his own and rubbed our socks together while he sorted out his answer, “This is the bit I’m always rubbish at.”

 

“You’re not rubbish. What bit?”

 

“John, yes I am! The hanging around with people in groups and having nice chats and not doing or saying anything dreadful or laughable, and I know, I  _ know _ it’s only one day, like I told my mum but.” He sighed a warm gust on my neck, “I don’t want it being the latest in a chain of the-time-Sherlock-was-horrible-and-isn’t-it-comforting-in-its-way-that-he-always-ruins-these-things.”

 

I kept twining his curl round my finger, “I don’t think that about you.”

 

He buried his head in the crook of his arm, “I should not have done this. Ring my mother and tell her we’re re-eloping.” 

 

“Sherlock,” Sherlock didn’t look up. I patted his back, “Nobody who’s coming tonight is going to expect you to be anything but yourself. Our friends don’t think you’re horrible.” He shrugged. “You think Mary and Janine are going to expect you to have changed into someone else just because we’re having a party? Or Molly? Or Greg? Or Mrs Hudson? People want to spend time with you because they like  _ you.  _ The way you are. Not because they hope you might eventually be different.” 

 

Sherlock turned his head on his arm so that I could see his face again, “You’re a really excellent husband, John.” 

 

I pinched his side, “Well, I love you, and luckily for me, you like that.” Sherlock exhaled a little mirth that was just short of laughter. I leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose, “I think we need to get some breakfast in you.” 

 

“Very pragmatic of you.”

 

“I’m a doctor. We tend to be that way,” I pet his hair and kissed his temple and then his cheek, because I couldn’t really reach his mouth at the angle he was holding his head. 

 

Sherlock began to rub our socks together again, “John, did you know you’ve kissed me five times since you came into the kitchen?”

 

I grinned, “Have I?”

 

“You have. And I’ll bet you didn’t even know you’re sitting under the mistletoe.” 

 

…

  
  


“You are impossible; why are you being this way?!”

 

“What?” John looks up from the punch he’s mixing. “You said, ‘John, punch bowl’ so here I am.”

 

“Not you,” nod down at the vexing bowl of melted chocolate that is refusing to go from grainy melted chocolate to stiff mousse. “That!”

 

“Oh,” can see that John is fighting a smile. “Glad to hear I’m less impossible than the pudding.” 

 

“Marginally!” Blow at a bit of my fringe that keeps drifting down past my eyebrow.  

 

John tips a jigger of rum into the punchbowl and gives it a stir, then wipes his hands on his trousers and comes down to my end of the table, “Maybe leave that for a bit and have a little rest before our guests get here?”

 

“I don’t have time, John! The mousse has got to go into the fridge to set for an hour and then-”

 

John brushes back my fringe, which has already started to drift again, “You’ve done about a lifetime worth of chopping and pureeing today, and you’ve been up since six-”

 

“Five, actually.” 

 

John dances soft fingers across the small of my back and begins to loosen my apron strings, “So we’ll have the rum balls and the gingerbread, and I’ll put out ice cream. No one will miss the mousse, lovely, though I’m sure it would have been very nice. Let’s just have a little rest, or you’ll keel over in the mash in the middle of dinner.” 

 

Sag under these ministrations, and now he mentions it, I do feel a pressure behind my eyes (the sort that leads to a fearful headache and inevitable snippy outburst if ignored). 

 

“Please,” John leans up and kisses just above my collar (he seems to have a mental map of where exactly on my skin his lips will be met with most rejoicing)(the mind bungalow)(trust John to pack it full of sex), “Let me look after you? I’m your husband. It’s my job.” 

 

Shiver a little (his touch, his words, his breath on my ear; the cocktail is very efficacious) and nod, “That’s probably a good idea.” 

  
“I’m full of them,” John tows me into the bedroom and draws the blind. “Let’s get out of these,” he begins to undo his shirt buttons, “We’re all sweaty, and we’ll want a shower before everyone turns up anyway.” I follow suit, and when John turns back the blankets, we tuck ourselves in, and I’m lost almost immediately to the deliciousness of my head on the pillow, and John’s gentle hand on my hip. 

 

…

  
  


Sherlock and I woke in the darkness of our bedroom to the sound of Bunbury barking in the sitting room and under the barking, the high, panicky sound of insistent knocking edging into demanding banging at our flat door. 

 

I sat up, my heart pounding, kicked off the blankets, and made for the sitting room with Sherlock just behind me, girding himself in his tartan dressing gown. Bun bounced about our ankles yipping, her tail whipping, and I threw open the flat door to find stood in the passage, Harry, Mycroft and Greg, and Molly and Stella, with little Emilia in a sling about her torso. Sherlock peeped over my shoulder to look, and drowned a snort and a giggle in my shoulder. 

 

I cleared my throat and stepped back from the door, very conscious of my bare chest and my mostly bare legs, “Christ. Er. Sorry, come in. Merry Christmas,” I added lamely. The whole party stepped into the flat, taking in my boxer shorts and Sherlock’s dressing gown and the mess of his hair. “Can I erm. Take your coats?” 

 

“Oh dear,” Mycroft pulled an actual pocket watch from somewhere and consulted it. “Are we incredibly early? We did say four? I seem to have mislaid my invitation.” 

 

I glanced at Sherlock, and he was blushing scarlet right up to his ginger curls so that his whole head was bright red, but he burst out into helpless laughter at that, and Harry, Molly and Stella joined in. 

 

“They’re newlyweds,” said Greg with a big grin. “Leave them alone.” 

 

I shook my head, “No. No, no. That’s. That’s not.” 

 

“Never mind,” Sherlock said through his giggles. “They’ll never believe you.” 

 

“God!” I scrubbed a hand through my hair. “Well. Clearly we need to. Freshen. Hang your coats, take off your, er, baby. Get comfy, help yourself to punch. Bunbury here will entertain you. We’ll just.” I grabbed Sherlock’s hand and whisked him off back to the bedroom for a wash and a change of clothes. 

 

When we rejoined the company, Mycroft was helping his parents out of their coats. Stella and Greg were chatting over the punchbowl, Greg dandling Emilia and grinning hugely. Harry was kneeling by the tree, offering Bunbury a treat, and Molly had found the contraband cigarette lighter under the skull and was lighting the candles on the mantel. They all looked up when we came in, and Sherlock’s parents came towards us for hugs and kisses. 

 

“Happy Christmas, boys! Don’t you look smart! John, I love your little hankie. And Sherlock, I see you’ve hung the garland.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Dad, yeah thanks for sending it.” 

 

Mae kissed us each, “It looks marvellous in here, and doesn’t it smell good!” 

 

“Sherlock’s really outdone himself with the food. He did every bit of the cooking,” I said proudly.

 

Sherlock smiled and tucked in his chin, “Who wants punch? John’s done the punch, and it’s excellent.” 

 

“Ah punch was always my job,” Bob said smiling at me fondly. 

 

“Where shall we put presents?” Mae held up a bulging bag, and Sherlock took it. 

 

“I’ll put it under the tree, but Mum you promised!”

 

“I know, dear.” She laughed and patted his cheek, “I lied.”

  
  


…

  
  


“Go on then, Martha,” Harry has taken a shine to Mrs Hudson after catching her sneaking up the back stairs with a plate of mince pies and is trying to convince her to dance, though the carols are fairly undanceable. “We’re the only single girls here; we’ve got to stick together.”  

 

Mrs Hudson titters and chucks her chin, “Get a little more wine in me, love.” 

 

“I can do that!” Harry reaches for a bottle. 

 

“Speaking of a little more wine,” pipes up Mary (who has had plenty) from bum-toasting by the fire. “What’s the difference between Christmas dinner and a wedding reception?”

 

“It seems like you’ve already got something in mind, Mary,” try and lure Bunbury to me with a treat, but she is enchanted with my mother (and stuffed from people practising the same manipulation on her all evening) and hasn’t moved from Mum's left shoe in nearly an hour. 

 

Mary dings a spoon against a punch mug, “One of you ought to make a toast and make it feel like a proper wedding.” 

 

“I actually did have something I wanted to say,” John pushes up from the table to a smattering of applause. “I didn’t write this down or anything, so don’t expect genius. I’ve only been thinking it over for most of today. Anyway,” He rests one hand on my shoulder, and I cover it with mine. John presses my hand and kisses the top of my head, and someone behind me coos (don’t bother looking round to check who). John clears his throat and strokes my shoulder with his thumb, “So our Sherlock here tells me he’s bad at all this stuff, this all friends together stuff. And I know we all know that’s rubbish, but let’s talk for a bit about how rubbish it is, exactly.  

 

“When Sherlock and I started planning this little gathering, he asked me what a Watson Christmas is like, and I had to confess, there really isn’t any such thing. I didn’t have much in the way of roots or of home when I met my.” He pauses and shines so at me that it rather makes my eyes prick, and I’m forced to dab at them with my sleeve. 

 

“When I met my husband. I was almost totally alone.” Press the hand still resting on my shoulder, and John pinches back very gently, “But I did happen to meet Sherlock, by chance. We were introduced actually by a friend who sadly couldn’t make it this evening. And I won’t pretend I fell in love the instant I saw him, because what does that mean, really? But I knew nearly at once that I was keen to see as much of him as I could, and fortunately for me, he wanted to give me exactly what I wanted to have. He does that, Sherlock does.

 

“As it turns out, having Sherlock in my life wasn’t only having Sherlock in my life. Miraculous as he is, even on his own, he brought me something else worth having as well. Most of the people in this room, my dearest friends, I found you, because I found him first. I love you because I loved him first. Sherlock didn’t only give me our home, he gave me. Our family. We’re here in this room, and some of us, here still on this Earth, because Sherlock Holmes loves us.” 

 

I rise at that, throw my arms about John, and kiss him. Probably poor form to interrupt the groom’s speech, but truly I could not help myself. Lay my cheek against his, and he strokes my nape and kisses my jaw. 

 

“I love you,” John murmurs, so low that it’s more a gust of his warm breath against my ear than words I can exactly make out, but I know what he means, and he knows what I mean. 

 

Shut my eyes, though I shouldn’t (too ambrosial a cup to drink from quite so deeply in front of others)(don’t care; I’m doing it anyway)(it’s my wedding!) and I  squeeze John tighter and rock him or he rocks me or maybe we only overbalance, being pressed a little too tightly together, but it all comes to the same, doesn’t it? 

 

John’s eyes are wet when we draw apart, “To us?” he asks me, reaching for his glass. 

 

I tap mine against his and reply over the ring of glass on glass, “To us.” 

 

And around us, altogether our family echoes, “To us.” 


End file.
